Deflowering romance – one book at a time

weight-shaming

As in “The Guys” brand of slacks.

Read on or get a closer look for the full impact, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. And not just about the fat-shaming — there’s some sexual innuendo (of course) AND a lovely bit of racism in there too!

If you are 40 or under — around the waist — The Guys are your slacks.

Being able to wear The Guys isn’t a matter of luck. If you’ve been wise enough to keep your chest bigger than your stomach – The Guys are for you. You look good, they look good on you. The Guys are lastingly Best/Prest. Get to wear The Guys!

Just 42 pounds away from wearing The Guys

It’s a worthwhile project — slimming down for The Guys. They’re made for guys 40 or under — around the waist. That way we tailor them to look good on people who look good. Naturally, The Guys are Best/Prest, handsomely finished and all those other details you’d expect in pants made only for trim people. Get to wear The Guys!

If your dad can wear The Guys slacks and you can’t — shame on you

The Guys slacks are made for special guys. Those whose chests are bigger than their stomachs. Guys 40 or under — around the waist. Guys who fit neatly into a sports car. Or slam a ball a mile down the middle. If you aren’t ready for The Guys — get ready.

The Guys don’t discriminate against fat people — just waistlines

It’s true. Not everyone can wear The Guys slacks. We make them to fit men whose chests are bigger than their stomachs. That way we tailor them to look best of guys we are 40 or under — around the waist! (Bigger sizes we leave to Omar and the other tent makers.) Naturally, The Guys are Best/Prest. Get to wear The Guys!

Preferred — by preferred profiles

Think of The Guys as a social asset. For elevation to preferred positions. If you are impressive — if your chest is bigger than your stomach — you can wear The Guys.

Oy. Uff da. Bloody hell. WHAT THE FUCK.

Let’s take a closer look at Mr. Prick McPedestal in all his Full Polyester Glory, shall we?

Little does Mr. McPedestal know, the behind-the-smoke-screen designer is a guy named Marv from Wisconsin. Specifically, Oshkosh, Wisconsin, where Marv can be found smoking a cigar while sitting on his plastic chair inside the exalted fashion empire of Oshkosh B’gosh.

I made up the part about Marv and his chair and his cigar, but – I shit you not – this ad was commissioned and approved by the same company who built their reputation with branding like this:

This whole “The Guys” branding and sales pitch is just SCREAMING to be a Mad Men episode, isn’t it? Get on that, Matthew Weiner.

So, now what?

We now officially wrap up this five-part episode of Epic Mean Girl Rant of WTF Righteous Indignation. I plan on reading only GOOD books from now on, but we all know how well that’s worked out so far.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

If you’re joining this rant in progress, don’t miss the beginning and middle of all this WTFery:

The Bonus Round: Skinny Shaming for Power & Profit!

This post is dedicated to a certain romance author who was brave enough to describe herself on Twitter as once being “psychotically skinny and boobless” — and to all the other “oohmph”-deficient gals (and guys!) through the ages.

I couldn’t really make a game of out this one, because the messages are painfully repetitive. I guess stick chicks aren’t worth an ad agency’s creativity. So instead, let’s just all wallow in the resulting pit of despair. I’ll bring the beer.

Ready, set, drink!

I brought both light and full-calorie beer, by the way. Because I’m thoughtful like that.

No SEX APPEAL.

To the fuckwad in the first cartoon panel: Happy Sexy Curvy Girl chose the other guy because you say stupid shit like “let’s vamoose.”

No EXCUSES.

Yeah, well, Smarmy Guy, you’re wearing lipstick, so STFU.

No OOMPH.

I’m really, really curious why “bring out” is in “air quotes.”

No GLAMOUR.

American GLAMOR, maybe. But British GLAMOUR? Never.

No SOLID FLESH.

So, you say “Kelp-A-Malt” makes you feel SWELL. Really?

No DIGNITY.

I think they mistyped a vowel in her last name. But let’s be fair — this was long before boob jobs were affordable for casting-couch starlets.

Now the Fun Group Project! Woohoo!

Yes, I know I failed my self-imposed “no-snark” test in the Seminar on Body Issues. But I tried – HONEST. So in celebration of my sincere attempt at writing like a grown-up, it’s time to play….

Choose How You Lose!

Because, let’s face it, we’re all just pathetic romance readers who must aspire to have a Barbie Body to earn the love of a man. Any man. Or woman. It doesn’t matter, we’re all just one big pity party around here.

The rules are simple – just scroll through the tried-and-true weight-loss methods below and vote for your favorite(s) in the comments. And then make your guess which one is MY favorite (*snerk*).

Technical note:

Wimpy little foam thingies with suction cups that don’t stick to anything, like the cheap Nerf darts my son bemoans.

The middle-grade Velcro darts that stick if you “throw” them from three feet away, but don’t present a choking hazard for dogs of less than usual brain power.

The big-boy, bad-ass, biker-bar, don’t-fuck-with-me darts with actual POINTS that may cause pain and will hopefully cause intellectual stimulation when aimed properly. You know, like at BOOKS, not authors.

I tend to use the don’t-fuck-with-me darts the most. No, really.

ANYWAY:

I decided I couldn’t let this latest episode of Piss-Me-Offery go without having a bit of light-hearted fun with it — but with some honest constructive criticism as well. I’m saving up all the snark for the group project following the lecture, so here’s the inaugural Insta-Love Online Seminar for Romance Writers:

Using Body Image as a Character Trait in Romance Writing

Now remember son, the fat girls with daddy issues always try harder.

Don’t. Go. There.

Ever.

The ONLY exception to this rule is making a character’s weight issues an integral part of the story. And that’s a trope that should be touched only by a very select few authors who have the sensitivity AND skills in characterization to make it work.

Helen Fielding did it brilliantly in Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Random Author, you are no Helen Fielding.

If you throw in references to pounds and sizes and scales and muffin-tops and Spanx, it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass. In more ways than one. (Was that snark? I made it a few paragraphs snark-free, didn’t I?)

It seems like a no-brainer equation to me:

Women come in all shapes and sizes.
+
Women are the ones buying and reading your books.

WHY would you take such a low-payoff gamble that is nearly guaranteed to alienate a significant number of your readers? Do the math. You’re not going to come out ahead.

And for the remaining readers who aren’t offended or annoyed, you risk kicking them out of their reading trance as they mentally grapple with the pounds:height:size ratios.

Case study: Squeeze Play by Kate Angell

While Stevie tipped the scale at one-thirty-six…
+Her size sixes had evolved into tens and twelves
over the years, and the occasional fourteen.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I estimate that EVERY SINGLE READER will remove themselves from the story to calculate Stevie’s height knowing that she wears double-digit sizes at 136 pounds.

Don’t believe me? The official Answer According to Twitter was that Stevie is approximately three feet, four inches tall. EVERY contributor to that discussion, including me, put not just the fictional character into the equation, but herself as well.

And for what purpose? None. Nada. Nil. Null. After all that bullshit, there was no character change or growth. The weight-shaming was just a superficial and lazy and insulting attempt at defining a non-entity character. It didn’t matter. It doesn‘t matter.